‘He shall have to overcome that. After all, he will be king one day.’ The lady stood and turned towards John. For a moment she looked upset — her lips pressed together and lines radiating from the corners or her mouth. Then the lines vanished. ‘Tell me, John, what do you think of King Amalric?’
‘He is a good man.’
‘Yes, he tries to be.’
John frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
The lady did not answer. She bent down and placed a hand on Baldwin’s shoulder. The boy froze. She gently kissed him on the top of his head and went to the door. She stopped and looked back. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, John of Tatewic. I hope to see you again.’
‘As you wish, my lady. But tell me, what is your name?’
‘Agnes.’ Her eyes flicked to Baldwin and then back to John. ‘Agnes de Courtenay.’ And with that, she was gone.
A moment later William entered the room. ‘Who was that? You are a priest now, John,’ he said with mock severity. ‘You are not to entertain strange women.’
‘She is a lady. Agnes de Courtenay.’
‘Agnes?’ William’s eyes opened wide.
‘You know her?’
‘She is the King’s former wife.’ William lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Baldwin’s mother. What was she doing here? Did she come to see the child?’ John shrugged. William’s eyes narrowed. ‘Be careful of her, John.’
‘She seemed pleasant enough.’
‘She has been forbidden from seeing Baldwin, and for good reason.’
John raised his eyebrows, but William did not elaborate.
‘Now come. We have important business.’ William raised his voice. ‘Nurse!’ The nurse entered, and William led John from the room. ‘An ambassador has come from Egypt,’ William said as they headed across the palace.
‘What does he want?’
‘That is for you to find out.’
‘Me?’
‘You know their ways better than any of us, John. I want you to make him feel comfortable.’ William stopped before a wooden door. ‘And I need to know if he can be trusted.’
William pushed the door open to reveal a small room. A single window looked out on the courtyard of the palace, and through it streamed sunlight, illuminating a broad oak table with four chairs. The Egyptian ambassador had ignored the chairs and sat cross-legged on the thick carpet. He was simply dressed, his white cotton caftan contrasting with his dark skin, the same deep-brown colour as the table. John saw at once that he was no warrior: his face was soft and his hands plump. He rose as John entered.
John inclined his head. ‘As-salaamu alaykum, sayyid.’
‘Wa-salaam alaykum,’ the ambassador replied. His voice was soft and his Egyptian accent strange.
John placed his hand on his chest. ‘My name is John-Juwan,’ he added, giving it the Arabic pronunciation.
‘I am Al-Khlata, secretary to Shawar, the Vizier of Egypt.’
John gestured to the chairs. ‘Please sit. King Amalric has asked me to ensure that you are comfortable.’
‘I have everything I need,’ Al-Khlata said as he sat on the carpet.
‘You shall have fruit and cool water. I insist.’ John looked to William, who nodded and hurried off. John sat on the carpet across from Al-Khlata. ‘You must have travelled far.’
‘Across Al-Naqab,’ Al-Khlata agreed. His hazel eyes narrowed as he examined John. ‘How do you come to speak our language so well?’
‘I spent several years at the court of Nur ad-Din.’
‘And now you serve these savages?’
‘We cannot all choose our masters.’
At that moment a servant boy entered with a tray upon which sat a pitcher of water, two cups and a bowl filled with cubes of mango. The boy placed the tray on the floor between them and retreated, closing the door behind him. Neither man spoke as John poured the water and handed a cup to Al-Khlata. The Egyptian took a sip and placed the water aside. John held out the bowl of mango, but Al-Khlata waved it off.
‘I did not choose to serve my master, either,’ the Egyptian said. ‘My father was a Turcoman, born far from these lands. I do not remember him, whether he was a baker, merchant or warrior. I was bought as a child and sent to the Caliph’s palace in Cairo, where I was taught to write, to recite poetry, to keep accounts.’
‘Then we are not so different.’
Al-Khlata nodded. ‘Tell me of your new master, the King.’
‘He is a good man, honest and intelligent.’
‘I have heard that he is given to drink and women.’
John shrugged. ‘He is a king.’
Al-Khlata met John’s eyes. ‘I have heard that he is mad.’
‘Far from it, but-’ John’s forehead creased as he hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was low. ‘But he is odd. He sometimes laughs suddenly for no reason. You should not be offended. He is not mocking you.’
‘I see.’
‘And what of your vizier, Shawar?’
Al-Khlata looked amused. ‘Like your king, a good man.’
John heard the door creak open behind him and looked to see the spare, straight-backed seneschal Guy standing there, with William close behind. ‘Come,’ Guy said in Latin. ‘The King will see you now.’
William translated for Al-Khlata, who rose and followed Guy out of the door. John and William fell in behind them.
‘Can he be trusted?’ William whispered.
John shook his head. ‘He did not eat the fruit he was offered. This is a great insult in their culture; it shows that he does not trust our hospitality. And a man who does not trust us cannot be trusted.’
William nodded. ‘I was right about you, John. God did send you to us for a reason. Did you learn anything else? Why is he here?’
‘I did not ask.’
‘By Christ! Why not?’
John shrugged. ‘You said to make him comfortable. It would not have been polite.’
‘Very well,’ William grumbled. ‘We shall find out soon enough.’
‘G-God grant you joy, Al-Khlata. Welcome to J-Jerusalem, and to my c-court,’ Amalric declared in a voice too loud for the size of his private audience chamber. He sat upon a simple wooden throne, flanked by the seneschal Guy and the constable Humphrey on one side, and on the other by Gilbert and Bertrand, masters of the Hospitallers and Templars, respectively. Amalric was dressed in full regalia: the royal robe of ermine upon his shoulders, the crown of Jerusalem upon his brow, and a sceptre grasped in his right hand. He looked the part of a king, but even from the shadows at the rear of the room, John could tell that Amalric was nervous. It was not just the return of his childhood stutter; the king was also stroking his thick blond beard. John had been at court long enough to learn that this was as agitated as Amalric ever became.
Al-Khlata put his hand to his heart and bowed. ‘As-salaamu alaykum, Malik,’ he began in Arabic. William translated. ‘I am honoured by your kind welcome. I am sure that the Caliph and Vizier Shawar will be equally pleased.’
Amalric tugged more doggedly at his beard. ‘P-perhaps they will be less pleased when they hear what I have to say. If you have come to seek p-p-’ The king’s face reddened, he took a deep breath and started again. ‘If you have come to seek our friendship, then you must know that cannot be. You have allied with Nur ad-Din. You have allowed his army into C–Cairo itself. There can be no peace between our p-peoples so long as his men remain in your lands.’
‘Of course. That is precisely why Shawar has sent me. He needs your help to drive Nur ad-Din’s army from Egypt.’
John could hardly believe his ears. Shawar had only just signed a treaty with Nur ad-Din. William seemed equally surprised. He stood with his mouth open, although he had not yet translated Shawar’s words.
‘Well?’ Amalric demanded. He looked from William to John. ‘What did he say?’
John cleared his throat. ‘He asked us to invade Egypt, sire. Shawar wants us to drive out Nur ad-Din.’
‘By Christ’s wounds,’ murmured the Templar, Bertrand. ‘We can open the holy sites to pilgrimage: where Moses crossed the Red Sea; where Joseph and Mary rested during their flight from Bethlehem.’